Page 33 of The Mood Board

Chapter 13

Bailey

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I OPENED THE CAR DOORand stepped out, squinting immediately against the light. The sun seemed too much for what was happening—the sky was brightly blue, the birds singing, the breeze light. It felt more like it should be a brooding sky with dark, low clouds threatening a downpour.

Whatever had happened with Janelle that morning was still a mystery, but the more I thought about it, the more disturbed I grew.

I highly doubted there had been a reason for the woman to have been in Liam’s office. Was there a chance? Yes. There may have been something innocuous he kept at home instead of at the office. But what could she possibly need that wasn’t right here in this building? What would he have had to send Janelle for instead of Tom, who knew where everything was? Or even me?

And how had he told her, anyway? Through his lawyer? The man hadn’t said a thing to me when I had seen him that morning outside the arraignment courtroom.

Because the last twenty-four hours hadn’t been terrible enough, I had gone to the arraignment—how could I not? I had to be there to support Liam, no matter my exhaustion or knowing it might tear my heart out. Tom would have come, but he had to manage the chaos at work. He had called to say he had arrived to missing computers, boxes and boxes of files gone to FBI headquarters, and an incredible amount of confusion and concern from employees. Not to mention the reporters already taking up valuable space in the parking lot.

It was just luck they hadn’t shown up at home yet. And if they did, I was afraid I would have to hide out at my old apartment. I had moved out when I still had time on my lease, but I was suddenly glad I had held on to it. Reporters were the last thing I wanted to deal with.

They had been outside the courtroom in force, pushing and shoving to get the best view in the gallery as they waited to catch Liam at his worst.

They had been milling around even when I had met with Liam’s lawyer outside of the courtroom as the minutes ticked by toward the hearing, forcing us to find an out-of-the-way corner to talk.

The lawyer and I had briefly talked on the phone, sometimes to get updates, other times to pass information one way or the other, like when Liam asked me to tell his father to please remain in Arizona, that he had everything covered. He would let him know if and when he needed him to come.

That had been a difficult conversation with my father-in-law-to-be. Not because he was difficult—I wasn’t sure that man had a problematic bone in his body—but because I had heard the heartbreak and worry in his voice as I promised him I would take care of his son. The worst part was the man had told me he believed in me.

It had been a terrific vote of confidence in me as much as it had been terrifying that this man was trusting me to care for his son in his stead in a situation in which I had very little control.

The conversation with Liam’s lawyer had been bleaker, if possible. He had outlined in no uncertain terms that Liam was in very serious trouble. The charges against him meant serious jail time in federal prison—the kind of jail time that would mean waiting a decade or more to start our life together. The idea had left me breathless, terror spiraling as pins and needles down my limbs.

The only hope came from the lawyer’s assurance that Liam would get out on bail. He had stated it as a fact, though he warned it might be a significant amount.

Except when the question had come before the judge, he had denied Liam bail entirely. Liam’s lawyer and the state’s attorney had protested, but the judge had banged his gavel and called for the next case.

Liam had looked terrible as they had led him in, but the look on his face as they led him out of the courtroom had been heartbreaking. I had never seen him look so lost, so devastated—the only time in my memory that came close was when I had broken up with him after finding out about the houses.

We hadn’t even gotten a chance to talk, not even a single word. We had exchanged glances, which had to stand until, I thought, he was home that night. Except now that might be months away, depending on how long it took his case to go to trial.

The thought had once more stolen my breath until I was standing in the courtroom rapidly emptying of reporters, hyperventilating.

Somehow, I had made it out of the courtroom, where Liam’s lawyer had told me he and his team were doing all they could to get this situation under control. I had nearly snapped at him that he’d better, that Liam was paying him enough, but I’d held my tongue. What was going on had nothing to do with him—we had all been caught unaware. Someone was leading this charge, and they were already multiple steps ahead of us.

If we were ever going to get Liam out of this situation, we had to figure out who it was. But first, we had to figure out where to start, and something told me it was with Janelle.

Her strange visit that morning had stuck with me, and the more I thought about it, the more unsettled I became. It would have been odd if she had simply stopped over, but excusable—everyone would have believed her story that she was merely doing something thoughtful. But all that had crumbled when I found her in Liam’s office.

That wasn’t sitting right with me.

I believed her about as much as I believed the gossip rag columnists and paparazzi were there for hard-hitting news stories.

Even from here, I could see the gossip magazine reporters milling around, talking on the phone, drinking coffee, most looking bored.

“Good,” I muttered, jamming my sunglasses on my face and pulling my hat down over my head as I walked across the parking lot to the front doors. One person glanced my way, and I sped up, hoping they wouldn’t recognize me and sound the alarm.

But I was much less recognizable than Liam, my picture meriting only a few images in the society column of the newspaper or blogs, standing beside him at charity events, and I slipped easily past them.

Inside, things were less chaotic than I had imagined. Except for a few people talking in hushed tones by the coffee machine, everyone was working quietly at their desks. It looked like the FBI hadn’t taken everything. I wasn’t sure what I had imagined, except people running around like chickens with their heads cut off, talking doom, maybe even walking out.

Tom was in his office, typing furiously away at his keyboard. And by furiously, I mean he was tapping so hard, I was afraid the keys would fly off, his glare at the screen so angry I was surprised the monitor didn’t burst into flame.